


Assurance

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Denial, F/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:51:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks he still has power.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Assurance

**Author's Note:**

> Written to fill the prompt: _Petyr/(Queen)Sansa, tease and denial_.

_He thinks he still has power._ The thought arrives clear and sudden when he comes to her that night, all courtly smiles and teasing words.

The crown he helped win her was laid on her head that morning, the fate of the North placed in her slim hands. And yet here he was, and he looked at her as if she was still a student, a plaything, a pawn.

_He’s come to beg, though._ That much was clear, even if his pride would never let that rise to the surface. Sansa had caught his eye before he bowed to her that morning, had seen the flicker of uncertainty there—a fleeting worry, something only she could catch.

Sometimes she wondered if he was ever aware of how much he taught her.

Petyr doesn’t tell her what he wants when she lets him in her chambers, but the way his hands flutter through the parchments that line her desk, the way he leans in to brush her hair away and whispers suggestions based on lies tells her all.

She lets him take her mouth, falling into the familiar give and take, biting into his lips and relishing the sounds she draws from him. He lifts her up onto the desk and they sit at eye level, a position that she can’t help but see as wrong. She wraps her legs around his slim hips and digs his heels into his back till he presses his face against her neck, shoulders trembling. She smiles slightly at their reflection in the window behind them.

She makes no protest as he enters her, angry at herself for the sigh that escapes her lips. To remove herself from this betrayal of her body, she thinks of her crown, of justice, of the way he must bow and simper to her. Her pleasure builds into something beyond a physical reaction.

Her eyes fall to the small silver blade on the edge of her desk, used to break the seals on document after document. Trembling, she moves one hand from his hair to caress it.

_It would be perfect,_ she thinks, as his lips move back to her mouth, biting and claiming. She pictures the rush of the climax, the rush of the blood, and pulls him close to her, breaking around him with a whispered moan.

Her cheeks flush, from embarrassment more than anything else. He looks at her with the same air of superiority he always has, and she can’t help herself from slapping him before he can continue.

Petyr pulls away in shock, his gray-green eyes burning with frustration. Sansa lowers herself to the floor and orders him out, forcing her voice not to tremble, forcing herself to never break his gaze.

She presses the silver knife into her hand when he leaves, and pictures again what it will look like when his throat opens for her, her eyes never leaving his.

But the feel of his cheek under her hand is fresher, and the look in his eyes then was more than worth it. She fingers the knife and thinks that, yes, she can assure his fears.

She still has some use for him.


End file.
